Don't Turn Around (4 page)

As soon as the fuse started smoking, the remaining guards went nuts, practically tripping over one another in their haste to track down the source. They tore past the boat a few aisles away, where she’d taken shelter. Noa waited until it sounded like most of them were gone, then ran as quickly as possible toward the red lights. And now it looked like her plan had worked—the first part of it, at least.

The guard turned back to find the chief grinning at him. “So you guys got this handled, or you want us in there? ’Cause I’m looking at about a billion dollars’ worth of boats that are about to become kindling. Then it’ll jump to those warehouses, and you’re gonna want to break out the marshmallows.”

At the mention of the warehouses, the guard blanched white. He stalked a few feet away and jabbered into a radio. A minute later he came back and waved the fire truck in.

The chief issued a cheery wave to the guard as the truck drove past. The guard closed the gate, then watched the truck turn down the main aisle. Hands on his hips, shoulders tensed, he muttered to himself. Then he ducked back inside the small hut at the entrance.

Noa stayed low, bent double as she followed the truck from a few aisles over. She’d spotted cameras on either side of the gate, four of them aimed to cover the entrance on both sides. So just strolling past was out of the question, even if she managed to distract the guard. And someone had to be watching the gate; it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out this was her escape plan.

On the other side of the gate, she’d seen a long strip of pavement stretching off into the distance. The road was lined by parking lots ensconced in high fences. After about a half mile, the pavement jigged right.

That was a lot of ground to cover. And she wouldn’t be able to make it without being seen: It was wide open, with nothing to hide behind.

Luckily, the cameras were pointed down. Bearing that in mind, she’d developed a backup plan.

Night had fallen, and the dark sweatshirt and sweatpants made it easier for her to move freely. Noa zigzagged through the boats, keeping her eyes and ears peeled for pursuers. Most seemed to have slunk back to the warehouses when the fire department responded. Having a few dozen security guards for a boatyard would probably have raised some eyebrows, she thought with a snort.

The truck stopped. Peering beneath the nearest boat, Noa watched the firefighters scramble toward the burning yacht. The fire had developed nicely—she could feel the heat of it from here, and bits of black ash swept past on the wind. A long white hose unraveled, bouncing off the blacktop as the firefighters dragged it forward at a trot.

One stayed with the truck. His focus was directed toward where the rest of his battalion had disappeared. They must have signaled him, because he suddenly deftly spun a wheel, turning the water on. The long white hose went taut.

Noa watched him, her anxiety growing. She’d hoped the firefighters would leave the truck unattended; it hadn’t occurred to her that one might stay close by. To execute her plan, she needed to get past him.

She’d already considered approaching the firefighters directly to ask for help. But that would open the door to a whole host of other problems she wasn’t ready to deal with. They’d call in Children’s Services, and Noa would be stuck dealing with social workers, judges, and cops again. No matter what had happened to her, she refused to get sucked back into the system after devoting so much effort to escaping it.

Of course, if she couldn’t manage to get out of this boatyard …

There had to be a way. Noa frowned, thinking. She still had the rest of the matches, tucked in the front pouch of her sweatshirt. Maybe another fire?

As she was digging for them, there was a sudden call from the yacht.

The firefighter’s head jerked up. “I’ll be right there!” he called out. He flipped open one of the panels set in the side of the truck, extracted something, and trotted off toward his companions.

Noa hesitated, but just for a second. No knowing how long he’d be gone, and the fire would surely be extinguished soon. She edged out from the shelter of the boat she’d been hiding behind and made her way toward the main aisle.

It seemed clear. She peered in both directions, but couldn’t make out anything except the shadows of firefighters cloaked in a wreath of dwindling smoke about a hundred feet away.
Now or never,
she told herself, drawing a deep breath.

Staying on the ball of her injured foot, she raced for the side of the truck. Awkwardly, she scrambled up the ladder mounted on the side and landed hard on top. She pressed herself flat against the roof. Panting, she strained her ears, listening for any indication that she’d been spotted.

A minute passed, then another. Nothing.

It felt like an eternity, but probably only fifteen minutes went by before she heard the chief say, “Wrap it up, folks.”

Noa lay still as they packed up their truck, chattering the whole time about what a jerk-off the guard had been. She prayed they wouldn’t have to put anything on top. Minutes passed. Finally the engine roared to life, gears whining as the truck jerked back toward the gate, going in reverse down the main aisle.

A metal beam ran the length of the roof on either side of her. Noa braced her hands and feet against it, holding on tight. Her right foot throbbed in protest where she’d cut it, but she gritted her teeth against the pain. If they accelerated sharply or went too fast, she’d be sent flying.

At last the truck cleared the gate, concertina wire retreating in the distance. Hopefully the cameras had been directed too low to catch a shot of her as they lurched past.

After a slow three-point turn, the truck faced down the road. They were driving at a leisurely pace, clearly not in any hurry now that they were headed back. As they hit the right turn, the truck slowed. Noa seized the opportunity to roll off the back. Her foot protested, sending a shock of pain all the way up her calf. The sensation knocked her off her feet, and for a second she lay in the middle of the road, curled in a ball.

The truck slowly eased out of sight. Summoning her last reserve of strength, Noa forced herself to get up and break into a trot, following it. A couple hundred yards away, the truck stopped at an intersection. The light turned green and it hooked right, joining the sweep of cars driving back to the city. Noa ran as fast as she could until she reached the road, listening the whole time for a car coming up behind her. Once there, she turned right and jogged a few more blocks before stopping. Looking up, she got her bearings. She knew this intersection; there was a T stop about a mile away.

She pulled the hood up, shading her face, and tucked her hands into the sweatshirt pouch. Shoulders hunched against the cold, Noa crossed the street and started limping toward the station.

Peter paced across his father’s office: five steps forward to the shelves filled with decorative leather-bound books, then five back to the desk where his computer had sat ten minutes earlier. He didn’t know what to do.

The rest of the guys in black had left with Mason. No one seemed particularly concerned about him once they took his computer, and he’d discovered why pretty quickly. The landline into the house had been sliced, and so had the cable, incapacitating the network. Not a huge deal—he had a satellite hookup. But after getting that set up on his father’s computer, Peter realized he didn’t even know who to contact.

He’d dug out his cell phone; there was a signal again, so they must have stopped jamming it. More than anything he wanted to talk to his parents. The familiarity with which Mason had said their names freaked him out, and Peter was suddenly convinced that something terrible must have happened to them. He’d already called three times, but neither of them was picking up, which was a really bad sign. Priscilla and Bob were never without their phones. Peter always joked that they’d be taking calls during the apocalypse. They walked around all day with Bluetooth devices jutting out of their ears. Half the time Peter would think they were talking to him, only to realize after a few sentences that they were actually engaged in a work conversation. It was one of the things he really hated about them.

And now, the one time he was desperate for them to answer, they weren’t picking up.

He redialed. Again, it went straight to voice mail. “Yeah, Dad? Peter again. Listen, something kind of … bad happened, and I really need to talk to you. It’s important. Call me back.”

He hung up, frustrated. Peter was tempted to call Amanda and see what she thought he should do. But he could predict how that conversation would go. She’d immediately start criticizing him for not calling the cops, and would probably insist that he hang up and dial 911.

Which he’d been tempted to do, but something stopped him. He got the feeling that calling this in would make things even worse. And would they even believe him? It sounded crazy—that a bunch of armed guys had broken into his house but only took his computer, leaving behind the more expensive one sitting beside it. The only sign that the guys had been there at all was the damaged front door—and Mason had said someone would come by to fix it. That was what was stopping him, he realized; what kind of thief offered that? What was really going on here?

Peter went behind the desk and collapsed back in his dad’s chair. He opened the drawer again and took a big pull off the whiskey bottle, not caring anymore whether or not Bob noticed.

His cell phone rang.

Peter sprang to answer it, nearly sending it flying in his eagerness. “Hello?”

“Peter? What’s going on?” his dad demanded.

Peter fell back into the chair, overcome by a profound wave of relief. “Dad, I’m so—”

“What’s he saying?” Priscilla’s voice in the background.

“He’s not saying anything yet; give me a chance to talk to him.” As always, Bob sounded annoyed. He was one of those people who firmly believed that the world was engaged in an overarching and continuous plot to get under his skin and make life difficult. Peter could never figure out why. As far as he could tell, Bob’s life couldn’t be going much more smoothly. “Peter, you’re only supposed to call in an emergency. I thought we made that clear. We’re celebrating here, and don’t want to be disturbed.”

“This is an emergency,” Peter said defensively. “A bunch of guys broke into the house.”

“What? When?”

“Tonight. They just left.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Not yet,” Peter said, thinking,
Nice of you to be concerned
. Not
Are you okay, Peter?
or
Did they hurt you?
But then, nothing unusual about that.

“Well, why the hell not? What did they take?”

“Just my computer.” Peter paused. “Dad, he said his name was Mason. He seemed to know you and Mom.”

Silence on the line.

“Dad?” Peter finally said.

“We’re on our way home now. Just sit tight until we get there,” Bob said. There was an undercurrent of concern in his voice, and maybe even a little fear as he forcefully added, “Do not call the cops. I mean it, Peter—don’t tell anyone about this.”

“But Dad—”

“We’ll see you in a few hours. Remember, Peter—not a word.”

Peter heard his mother protesting in the background, then silence. Bob had hung up.

He started to lift the whiskey bottle back to his mouth, then changed his mind—he needed to be able to think. Peter put the bottle back in the drawer. As he was closing it, his eyes fell on the AMRF folder again. Twenty minutes after he started snooping around that firewall, a bunch of private security lackeys busted into his house. The chances of that being pure coincidence was slim.

What was AMRF, really? And what were they trying to hide?

The only way to find out was to make an active assault on their firewall—this time, covering his tracks. There was only one problem: They’d taken his laptop. And clearly, he couldn’t use Bob’s computer to hack in. Mason’s threat had been clear enough, and Peter didn’t want to think about what would happen if they caught him sniffing around again.

Peter tapped a finger against the desktop, his mind whirring. He wasn’t about to leave this alone, though. He needed help with this, from someone who couldn’t be directly linked to him. Someone that even those guys would have a tough time finding.

And he knew the perfect person.

He signed in to /ALLIANCE/ again—it was his website; even if they were somehow monitoring Bob’s computer, they couldn’t expect him not to manage it. Someone had posted a new video since his last log-in, but he didn’t have time to look at it. Peter tapped a series of keys to gain access to past posts.

He’d deliberately built anonymity into the framework of /ALLIANCE/. Similar groups had faced lawsuits in recent years, with governments from the United States to Sweden trying to track down hackers and penalize them. Plus there was always the danger that some of the more anarchically minded members might do something that wasn’t in line with his mission statement. So Peter made a point of loosely tracking regular posters, making sure they weren’t either government flunkies trying to co-opt the site, or people just trying to enact retribution on someone for personal reasons.

So while there were no real names used, Peter could get in touch with anyone who posted if he needed to.

He composed the email to [email protected] Subject heading:
Research for paper
—keeping it innocuous in case the computer was being monitored. In the body of the email, he wrote,
Wanted to talk more about our term paper. Meet @ the quad later to discuss
.

Before hitting send, Peter hesitated. Getting someone else involved might put them in danger. Based on past postings, Rain sounded pretty tough, but still—it was a risk.

Then he remembered the feel of the knee in his back, and the arrogant expression on Mason’s face as he walked out the door with Peter’s computer. He clicked the mouse, sending the email out into the ether. Then he sat back to wait.

CHAPTER THREE

N
oa rushed up the stairs. She’d gotten off the T at Copley Station, the closest stop to the Apple Store on Boylston Street. But the store would be closing in fifteen minutes.